


Here

by layton_kyouju



Series: Our Rewound Future [1]
Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety, Dissociation, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Puzzle Family AU, because she deserves to live a full and happy life goddammit, the au in which claire survives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-10-03 08:41:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10240580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/layton_kyouju/pseuds/layton_kyouju
Summary: Life has brought challenges for them, but at least they have each other.





	1. Masks

_Pacing, not again, not again. Too much work, too much thinking, and it always follows the same downward spiral. Three assignments due this week, two the next. The words in his textbooks and notes are swimming in his vision. Forming runes he cannot decode._

_Focus is a fine thread lost in a violent, frothing ocean of apprehension._

_The thoughts always begin slow at first. They are little flickers in his mind like the bites of needles that make him wince, but he continues his work. Cuts and jabs by a self-hatred that festers within him, sea urchins crawling under his skin and writhing in his stomach, but they do not draw blood._

_He can keep them back for only so long._

_Then the dam breaks. It overtakes him before he has a chance to react, flooding his entire being with fear and doubt. Why are you putting yourself through this, why bother at all, why try to honor him when you're the one that destroyed him in the first place. Unsure if scathing words or silence had been worse. And now they loath you, the first_ real _friends you had ever made, and you can never go back. It may push you too far._

_Can’t see, can’t breathe. Everything a reminder, a memory, a guilt and regret swallowing him whole. Haunted by masks with emotionless grins and unending caverns, darkness and a bitter chill filling the hollow structure of crumbling rock. Books and papers drown every inch of the floor, such a catastrophe. Always a catastrophe, staining everything he touches with black ink, bleeding._

_Pathetic, pathetic, just get over it. It has been seven years._

_Numb._

_Oh, heavens above._

_He slides to the floor, hands tangled in his frazzled hair. Ragged, wheezing breaths drag in and out of his lungs._

_Seven years._

_A blink of an eye yet an eternity all at once. Static thrums in his feet and fingertips. How h ow h o W HOW, a small, terrified part of him wants to scream from under the crushing weight, but the rest is too tired, too severed. It would do no good. Puzzles only serve as garbled background noise. Corncobs and ladybirds warp into animatronic sentries and massive spiders. One wonders if that box they dredged out of the dirt in the ruins truly_ was _cursed._

_Outside it is roaring. Drums pounding and cymbals clapping and sheets of crystal pouring down from a charcoal sky. Perhaps it will drown out the distorted echoes that seep through his skull and ribs._

_Weaving and curling like serpents, tendrils, vines, reclaiming the foundations within him. Rusted and breaking down. The walls are too close, caving in._

_A tense pull in his stomach as if anticipating the floor beneath him to fall away, plunge him into darkness. Thrumming like nails tapping on the windows, the walls, the ceiling. He is a single auburn leaf clinging to ragged bark, shuddering, rattling, holding on against ruthless gales._

_A crackling spark of cold light saturates the small, disheveled flat, then snaps back to the dull gray haze. It jerks him out of his trance long enough for him to realize that he needs to be elsewhere. Anywhere but here._

_Trembling fingers grip the red cap discarded like an upturned ship on the sea of white. Knees pop of an age he has not reached. Skidding once, twice on the cluttered underfoot. He is thankful his shoes are by the door, for if they were not he would not have the energy to seek them out._

_Out of physical memory, his hand locks the deadbolt of its own fruition, and the door clicks shut behind him._

••••••••••••••••••

Rain pattered against glass. Over gutters and shingles, drowning the city swathed in fog. Clear streaks dribbled down the window pane dividing warm kitchen lights and the dark, murky squall that lingered just beyond.

The sweet aroma of oasis berry wafted from a teacup perched upon a stack of books. Polydimensional Physics, Quantum Field Theory, Electromagnetism, each one worn and scuffed with use. Slender, precise fingers took hold of the cup’s handle, carry it to lips pressed tight in thought. The heat and soft tide of fruit filled her senses as she took a sip. From behind the glint of spectacles, her inquiring eyes poured over row upon row of numbers and equations.

Two sharp knocks echoed from the front door. Claire’s attention shot up from the research that littered the small kitchen table, her brow creasing. She glanced to the clock above the stove, its thin hands ticking away. Quarter past ten. A low roll of thunder outside did less than quell her confusion and unease.

The physicist rose from her seat and made her way across the flat to investigate, the soles of her slippers pulling against the faded rug with each stride. She leaned up on her toes to peer through the peephole in the door, and after spotting a familiar shade of red through the distorted glass, delight swelled in her chest and lit up her face. Her nimble hands made quick work of unlatching the lock and pulling open the last barrier between them.

“Hershel!” she greeted with a wide grin, but her joy flipped to shock at the state of her visitor. “Oh my goodness, you’re soaked!”

The man at the door gave a tiny smile and wave, but as he looked down, his mouth curved into a puzzled frown. As Claire had stated, his clothes were spattered with rainwater. The cap on his head drooped under the sopping weight, and dark splotches coated his shoulders, sleeves, and trouser cuffs. Droplets rolled down the hem of his sweater and dripped onto the hallway floor, leaving tiny puddles on the aged wood. “Ah, I suppose I am,” he said, his voice faint.

Claire took a step forward, and her slippered toes inched beyond the doorway. “What are you doing here? Not that I’m not happy to see you, but,” she trailed off, reaching out for his hand. Her fingers jumped as they met the cold chill of his skin, his nails ghosted with blue. "And you're freezing!" She curved her hands over his and felt shivers ripple throughout his sodden frame.

He blinked, forehead wrinkling. “Well, I was out for a stroll, and I found myself nearby, so I thought I might as well say hello,” he replied, but uncertainty still cloaked his words.

The scientist furrowed her brow. “In this storm?”

Hershel opened his mouth, but no words came. Instead, his answer was a slight shrug with a lopsided grin.

Claire looked him over for a moment longer, still perplexed, then shook her head. They could dwell on the reasons later. At the moment there were more pressing matters to attend to. “Just come in and warm up,” she said as she took a firmer hold on his hands, guided him through the threshold, and pushed the door shut behind them.

After Hershel stepped out of his drenched loafers and left them to dry by the entrance, Claire helped ease off his sweater. His collared shirt beneath it was revealed, plastered against his arms and shoulders in a sorry state. The forlorn russet argyle was draped on a hanger over the doorway.

Claire observed as Hershel stood in the middle of the living room rug. He tugged at his wet shirt cuffs as he gazed around the room, looking less like a waterlogged cat now, but a cloudiness still dwelled in his eyes, devoid of their usual acuity.

Muted footsteps toward him. A startled jolt when Claire rested a hand on his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry," she said, retreating it back. When a glimmer of clarity sparked in his demeanor, she gave him a smile. “Why don’t you have a seat, and I’ll get you a towel." Cogs chugged along, sluggish and strained. A nod of understanding followed, and he made his way to the sofa.

Worry dug at the physicist’s heart as she walked down the hall to the bathroom and set her eyes on the linen closet. Her thoughts remained behind with her guest.

For as long as Claire had known him, Hershel was an endearing balance of intelligence and absent-mindedness. Often as scattered as the books and papers that always littered his flat but still as sharp as the keenest tack.

Her fingers met thick, rough fabric. Pale blue like the sky on a rare clear day. She pulled it from its shelf and tucked it beneath her arm.

If she didn't know any better she would assume his brain grew so full of puzzles and facts that other information would tumble right out. Unnecessities such as remembering to eat, the passage of time, and general self-preservation were often tossed into the void. But she did know better. Something lingered deeper beneath that. Buried and locked away, only showing brief glimpses of itself through his usual quirks. The mere cap of an iceberg.

Claire returned to the living room to find her boyfriend hunched in the middle of the couch, his arms wrapped around his waist to take up as little space as possible. Staring into the carpet, in the valleys of coiled fiber. He looked lost.

The instant he saw her, however, a placid smile returned to his features. He sat up straighter, but a rigidness still pulled at his shoulders. Claire mirrored his expression despite the concern that weighed heavy in her gut.

"Do you mind taking off your hat?" she asked as she made her way to the sofa. Without protest, Hershel held his cap and set it on his knee.

Then a wave of blue washed over him, and a gasp escaped from under the canopy. Claire ruffled her hands over the top of the man’s toweled head. His muffled laughter followed suit, causing warmth to dance in Claire’s chest. “There you go,” she said after her work was done.

When Hershel pulled off the fabric, the same vacant smile was unveiled along with his rumpled hair. “Thank you,” he said, turning his attention to the towel. Claire looked on as he began to blot the sodden patches of his clothes. Infinite questions gouged into her thoughts, but she did not want to overwhelm her guest. One step at a time.

“What made you decide to go out for a walk on a day like this?” she said, sitting beside him.

A slight hesitation, his jaw tightening. “I felt that I needed some fresh air,” he replied, “My assignments on Corfe Castle and St. Peter’s Seminary were getting a bit overwhelming, so I needed to step away from them for a bit.” The towel wrinkled in his grasp. He did not look at her.

Silence poured between them, thick like cough syrup. Hershel rested the fabric on his lap, his thumbs running over its course fibers. Chaotic drumming of rain against their shelter, and a clap of thunder resonated through the little flat’s infrastructure. The sharp, rhythmic ticking of the clock on the far wall.

A faint gurgle broke the white noise. Both students looked to Hershel’s stomach, and he rested a hand upon it, brow creasing in embarrassment and confusion. “Sorry,” he said.

Claire was not sure whether to laugh or be concerned. “Hershel, when was the last time you ate?”

His brow steepled further, deep in thought as he stared into the rug. “I’m not certain,” he answered with a wince.

Claire almost slumped where she sat, at a loss. This was to be expected, she surmised, and concern proved to be the correct reaction. She offered Hershel a smile and extended a hand to him, and he stared at the offering before meeting her eyes. “Let’s take care of that traitorous stomach of yours.”

Hershel’s hand moved from his torso to rest on her palm. The contact made Claire recall the first time they held hands after becoming a romantic item. Back then, they both had turned a color not far different from Hershel’s beloved hat, and the pair had laughed at their shared embarrassment. Her chest surged with warmth at the memory.

In the present, a grateful smile was returned back up to her, but something still felt wrong. Forced.

Tucking the thought back, Claire lead the way into the kitchen, her love’s fingers linked with hers. “I’m a bit hungry myself, actually,” she mused, opening and closing various cabinets around the tiny kitchen with Hershel in tow.

Behind the final pantry door sat the solution in the form of a loaf of bread. She pulled it down onto the counter. A jar of strawberry jam from the fridge followed and was set down beside the loaf. Releasing Hershel’s hand to continue left a lingering guilt the Claire’s bones, but the archaeologist remained by her side. She grabbed two plates from the neighboring cabinet: one of white lined in blue, and another of red with orange hand-painted leaves adorning the brim. Hershel always favored that one.

Claire felt her guest’s curious gaze fall upon her as she placed two bread slices onto each plate and used a knife to scoop up a hefty serving of jam to slather onto a piece of bread. After all four slices were given a healthy coating of jelly, the scientist picked up the two plates, passing the crimson one off to her companion. “Every puzzle has an answer,” she quipped with a wink.

Hershel’s smile did not reach his eyes. He muttered his thanks and took the plate, held it gingerly, as if afraid that touching it would shatter it into pieces. With the kitchen table overtaken by coursework, the couple made their way back to the couch for their impromptu meal. A slight trembling rolled down Hershel’s arms, making the slices of bread quivver as he held them. Whether it was caused by weakness from not eating or something else, Claire was not sure.

After they had eaten their fill, they placed their empty plates on the coffee table beside the sofa. Claire leaned her head on Hershel’s shoulder with a content sigh. She glanced up at him; to her relief, he had regained a tint of color in his cheeks.

“Feeling any better?” she asked.

Hershel had pulled the towel back into his lap from the armrest, and his fingertips coiled and uncoiled its thin strands. “A bit, yes,” he assured, but the hush in his tone did not convince his host, and her hope sank like a pebble in a cold, dark pond.

He was worlds away.

Always polite, always willing to help those in need of aid, but a distance still lingered in his demeanor. A stark wall. Claire had noticed it when they first met; this quiet boy with big hair she sat next to in English Composition. Over the years the masonry had begun to chip away, little gaps in the brick where she could peer through, reach beyond and hold his hand, feel the brush of his fingers against hers, but it still loomed between them.

Now, she resolved to bridge that gap. A simple rest of her hand upon his. Hershel dropped his gaze to the fingers on his knuckles, then to her. The pure curiosity in his eyes caused a torrent of emotion to swirl through Claire’s being, but she pressed on.

“Hershel, if something is upsetting you, please don’t be afraid to talk to me about it.” She caressed her hand over Hershel’s wrist, slow and gentle. “Did something happen? I would like to help you if I can.”

Stunned, brows raised and mouth etched into a thin line, he did not appear to know how to react at first. His lips parted once, twice, but nothing escaped them. His expression calmed, and a kind, tender smile reemerged on his features. A smile just for her. “I’m all right. Really.”

Her heart lurched, ice spilling into her veins and mixing with blood. The wall climbing higher and higher, scraping the tumultuous sky. “Then why do I feel like you’re not being honest with me?” came the words before she could stop them. Something in Hershel’s mask crumpled, and an immediate sourness welled in Claire’s throat, choking her. “I’m so sorry,” she added as she pulled her hand away, ashamed, “What I mean is, if there is something wrong and you don’t want to tell me what it is, that’s okay, but you don’t have to feel like you can’t say when you’re upset.”

Hershel’s countenance softened. His fingers returned to fiddling with the towel’s threads. A slow breath made his chest swell and deflate again. He seemed smaller. “I’m not sure how to put it into words,” he said after a few still moments. Shoulders slumped, eyes strained and tired. Brickwork falling away.

Claire’s pulse hammered against her ribs. “Take your time.”

The world passed by unphased as it does, but Claire did not contemplate how long they sat in the verbal lull. Her focus was on the man beside her, her cheek pressed against his shoulder as she resumed the pacifying strokes across his forearm. The hiss of rain was their only company.

The white noise broke. “Do you know that feeling,” he began, rough like wheels churning on uneven stones and gravel, “when you’re dreaming, and everything seems so tangible but also disconnected at the same time? When you have a hard time deciphering if it is reality or not?”

Claire looked up, greeted with a face worn by exhaustion and worry. She gave him a nod.

“Well,” he shifted, cleared his throat, moved his attention to the floor, “that sensation does not exactly go away when I wake up. Sometimes it feels as if I’m an outsider watching myself go through the day.”

He bit down on his bottom lip, brow furrowed, fingertips knitting together. Searching.

"None of this feels real," he said, voice cracking on the final word. A hand ran through his tussled hair, then lingered on the back of his skull. He gave a dry laugh as if it all were ridiculous. “I think about how much time has passed since… I left home and came to the city, and everything gets foggy and detached; the pieces don’t match up. It’s as if I can’t tell if I’m asleep or awake. If I’m going to wake up and all of this never-,” but he could not continue the thought. He took another deep breath, and his eyes filled with that same glassy haze as he stared into the rug. "You, Brenda, and Clark," he whispered, "I'm afraid I'm going to ruin everything again."

His words faded into silence.

“Hershel,” was all Claire could think to say.

He shook his head. “It’s my problem, so I don’t want to bother you all with that.” He studied his wringing hands. A final mutter carried on his breath: “Nothing can be done about it anyway.”

The ticking clock.

The falling rain.

The archaeologist’s hands quaking in his lap.

Claire's arms swung around Hershel’s neck, pulling him flush to her shorter form. His body went stiff for an instant, but he relaxed against her, returning the embrace, allowing himself the contact. His fingers shook against her shoulder blades. The pair sat in the hush, listening to the skies pour down outside. Claire ran a hand over her sweetheart’s back, stopping to brush her fingertips over his wet hair.

"Hershel, we're your friends, and we care about you. We don't want you to suffer alone," she murmured over his neck, fighting the lump in her throat. Her freckled nose pressed against his skin, which was still tickled with rainwater and the cold night air. “We don’t want you to suffer at all.”

The man in her grasp started to shudder and tremble, fighting to keep himself together. His breath hitched against the shoulder support. Claire held him tighter, her own shirt growing damp from the remaining moisture clinging to Hershel’s. “I’m here,” she soothed, “This is real.”

Gentle words to breathe in, breathe out, repeat, lowering Hershel’s rattled state. The shaking soon receded to a faint hum in his nerves, and the strain in his muscles reduced its hold. Once his chest slowed to rise and fall in a calm, natural rhythm, Hershel lessened the embrace. Claire followed his gesture, moving back to give him room to recompose.

“Forgive me,” he said, his voice thick with tears he refused to let shed. He looked down at the sofa cushion between them in shame.

It made Claire’s entire being ache to see him this way; there had been anxiety attacks in the past, instances when he would fall silent, staring into space with a vacant yet terrified expression on his face. They were difficult to notice considering he was not the most talkative or open person in the first place, but Claire would do her best to help him calm down when his demons were getting the better of him. This, however, was different. A cup of tea and a hug would not make this fade. A little puzzle that spelled out a silly phrase would not remedy this fear.

“Love?” Claire kept her voice low and gentle. She clasped Hershel’s hand between hers, which pulled his despondent gaze up. Her thumbs caressed over the hills of his red, dry knuckles. "We can't change the past, but we can do our best to make the future better, right?" Hershel nodded, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

“You don’t need to worry about being a burden to us,” she continued. “Friends do their best to help each other when they’re struggling, and I think I can speak for both Brenda and Clark when I say that we’ll do whatever we can for you.” Despite her smile, Claire felt a sting in her eyes, her vision blurring at the edges.

Distress washed over Hershel’s features; he noticed. “Claire, I’m-,“ but she rested a palm on his cheek, halting his words. Worry and guilt mingled in his creased brow. A too-familiar phrase still clung in his throat, screaming to be freed.

The physicist leaned up to meet the archaeologist, her lips pressed to his.

Heat pulsed off his reddening face, but he fell into the warmth between them. His slow attempts to reciprocate betrayed his exhaustion, lethargy breaking down the tension. Regardless, Claire’s stomach did backflips. Beneath the cloak of rain and fog lingered the smell she adored of earl gray and old books.

After the few brief seconds of silent intimacy, she drew back. Hershel made that sweet little face he always did when they kissed, with closed eyes and parted lips, but then his eyes slid open, weary and somber. Claire cupped his jaw in her hands, grinning. “You have nothing to be sorry for,” she whispered, rubbing her thumbs over his cheeks. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts with me.”

Light glistened in Hershel’s eyes, flickering in the warm glow surrounding them. His lips quivered as if his mind were struggling so hard to find the proper description for the torrent inside him. A dark veil descended, the light fading. “I don’t deserve this,” his voice scratched.

A jolt rushed beneath Claire’s skin. “Of course you do,” she countered. “I only speak the truth; you deserve to be happy.”

He only stared at her for a moment, then returned his gaze to the sofa. The dull sheen flooded to his eyes, clouding them, and Claire knows he does not believe her.

“You _do_ , my dear,” she pressed on, adamant despite the emotion beginning to waver in her voice. “It’s all right to still be hurting. It’s all right to feel frightened or numb or wretched, but you are so much more than those feelings. You are more than the things that happened. The fact that you have worked so hard to move forward is proof enough of that.” Claire rested her forehead against Hershel’s with a light thump, clamping her eyes shut to fight back the growing burn within them. Words were strained and heavy, submerged in her lungs. “I love you so much, and I want you to feel safe.”

Hershel let out a choked sound between a quiet sob and a laugh. Something wet and warm met Claire’s hands, rolled down the outsides of her thumbs. Too warm to be rain.

“Thank you,” Hershel rasped, “I love you, too.” Claire sat back, and a smile filled to the brim with gratitude brightened Hershel’s face despite twin glistening bands dampening his cheeks. The first true smile she had seen all evening, beaming with his cheeks pillowing between Claire’s palms. The sight drew out the hot tears welling in her eyes and sent them falling down, down past a grin she felt pull at her lips. The fight to hold them back had become too great for them both, but neither paid it any mind. It was all right.

The young man’s smile broke into a yawn. He pulled away, the back of his hand covering his gaping mouth. “Excuse me,” he drawled when it subsided.

Claire let out a light chuckle. Grabbing the forgotten towel on the couch, she dried the tear tracks on her sweetheart’s face, then on hers, and placed it back on the cushions. She shot a glance to the clock upon the wall, and a protective instinct flared within her. “Considering the hour and the weather, I think it may be best if you sleep here tonight,” she suggested, giving his hand a light squeeze. “I don’t know about you, but I’m exhausted.”

Hershel’s eyes widened, and a tint of red colored his features. “I-I don't want to impose.”

“You’re not imposing. We can’t have you catching a cold, can we?” Claire replied as she gave him a tap on the nose. “But only if you _want_ to stay.”

In truth, she also did not want him to be left alone. She knew he would not do anything rash, but considering the fact that he walked all the way to her flat in the pouring rain at ten o'clock at night, she did not want to take any chances. His penchant for impulsive decisions did nothing to reassure her.

The prospect seemed to tumble in the archaeologist’s mind, a few gears chugging back into their usual flow. “I don’t oppose if it’s not a burden to you,” he said, “I just don’t have a change of clothes.”

“I think we can fix that.” Claire leaned up to kiss his forehead before hopping off the couch and going down the hall to her bedroom. Slow, quiet footsteps followed after her, padding through the corridor as she pulled open a dresser drawer. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Hershel’s figure hovering in the doorway, watching as she dug in search of proper attire for her guest.

She assessed a dark beige shirt before passing it over to him. “This is the biggest one I have. Do you think it will fit?” He took it into his hands before she turned away again, once more rooting through her clothes. “I don’t know about trousers, though. I have some with an elastic waist, but they still might be too small.”

“That’s all right,” Hershel murmured, his fingers trailing over the Gressenheller University crest emblazoned across the front of the shirt. His head snapped up when Claire let out an “Aha!” in victory. She held out the article that elicited such exuberance toward him: a pair of pants, covered from waist to ankle with tartan of reds, blues, and greens. She aligned the waistband at her hips; the cuffs trailed onto the floor, covering her feet.

“Would these work?” she asked, raising the trousers toward him. Hershel pressed the fabric between his fingertips, then gave Claire a small nod and smile. She reflected it back and released the trousers so Hershel could set them on top of the shirt in his hands. “You can change in the washroom, if you’d like.”

He stared down at the clothes, brow steepling. “Are you sure this is fine with you?” His face began to shift back to a flushed hue.

Oh, dear. She rested a hand on his arm. “Of course it is. I would not have offered if it weren’t,” she said in a soft tone, “Go ahead and get dressed.”

Some of the tension dissipating from his features, Hershel nodded and walked back up the hallway. Taking advantage of the moment of privacy, Claire changed her clothes and shuffled on her own pajamas. Only once she felt the soft blue fabric on her skin did she sense the weight in her hands, feet, and eyes like bags of sand tethered to her body. Goodness, if Hershel had not come by the physicist would still be hunched at her kitchen table with visions of formulas and variables dancing in her head.

A gentle knock resonated on the doorframe to her room. “Come in,” she called out, but as she turned around, she was frozen by the image before her.

The shirt fit her company well enough besides a bit of pull at his stomach, but the pants were far too short, stopping three-quarters of the way down his calves. He tugged at the base of the shirt in attempt to even out the bunched fabric with little success. It brought an image of clothes shrinking in the wash to mind.

Laughter bubbled in Claire’s throat, and she did not stand a chance of holding it at bay. It burst forth. Stammering and sputtering into her palm, lungs tightening. Dread wrenched its way into her head, she shouldn’t be laughing, but when she saw the sheepish grin that shone on Hershel’s face, the panic vanished. “You look very dashing,” she said once her breath returned to her.

He gave a small chuckle. “Thank you.”

The room fell to silence in a thick curtain, enveloping them. Standing across from one another, uncertain.

A wave of something heavy and anxious possessed Hershel, pulling his shoulders in as if anchored down by lead. "I suppose I'll see my way to the couch," he said with a weak smile as he took a hesitant step toward the doorway, "Thank you again."

Wait. "Ah, Hershel," Claire began, stopping her guest. He watched her, perplexed, but Claire’s words failed her. She tapped a knuckle on her chin, her lips drawn between her teeth. "Actually,” she said as she took slow steps toward him until he was just an arm’s length away, “I was wondering if you would like to sleep in my bed. With me."

The young man’s eyes swelled, and a rapid burst of crimson coated him from head to toe. For a moment Claire could swear that she saw steam billowing from her boyfriend’s ears.

A realization struck, and she felt a similar heat spill into her cheeks. She let out a flustered chuckle and wove a hand into her ginger locks. “I-I mean, just sleeping. Nothing other than that,” she clarified. “I’d feel terrible making you sleep on the sofa.” Because of course he would never accept an offer for him to sleep on the bed while Claire occupied the couch. He would sleep in the rain first out of lack of self-worth.

Some of the shock lifted from Hershel’s features, but the rosy hue still lingered.

"Only if you’re comfortable with that,” Claire added as she drew her fingertips through a wave of her saffron hair. There were numerous times when they had fallen asleep side-by-side, whether on the couch leaning against each other or dozing off on a blanket beneath the dappled shade of a tree, but nothing as deliberate and intimate as sharing a bed. The idea made Claire’s stomach feel light, but if her guest did not want to take part in that, she would not pressure him.

Hershel stared down at his knitted fingers, the tips of his ears glowing red. Claire worried her lip between her teeth, fear that she had upset him further surging in her veins, making her heart pound. Picarats, she had messed up, she had made him uncomfortable on top of the emotional state he was already in, and -

However, as he looked up, a shy smile meandered its way onto his lips. “Actually, that sounds nice.”

For an instant, Claire could not move.

She found herself taking hold of Hershel’s hands, the grin that spread across her face so wide that her cheeks began to ache. The archaeologist’s expression warmed with admiration, and his fingers took a gentle hold of Claire’s. In turn, she leaned up on her toes and gave his nose a light peck.

“I’ll get in on this side, and you can have that side,” Claire said, gesturing to the opposite half of the bed from where they stood. She reached her portion and held the covers, but across from her she saw Hershel eye the bed, pensive. A subtle flash of determination set the man’s brow and jaw. He grasped the fabric and folded it aside.

A brief sight of pale, thin scars crisscrossing over the inside of his forearms, some appearing more puckered and red than others. They solidified the prior decision to let him stay.

The pair clambered onto the bed, accidental bumps of hands, shoulders, and knees along the way. Flustered apologies were traded back and forth, but smiles still filled their cheeks with mirth. After more fumbling, at last they settled beneath the blankets. Claire slid off her glasses and set them on the nightstand beside her. She turned to Hershel, whose thumbs skirted over the edge of the quilt covering his lower half, tracing the triangle pattern that lined its perimeter.

“Shall I turn the light off?” Claire asked. Hershel nodded.

Reaching for the bedside lamp, a flick of Claire’s wrist plunged them into black. The void bled into a deep, cold slate painted over the room of fuzzy shapes. Claire’s fingers sought out Hershel’s hand beneath the sheets, and her lips found his in the darkness. “Cozy?” she whispered.

The pillow beneath him made rumpling sounds as he bobbed his head. “Your blankets are very comfortable,” he observed, and Claire smiled.

“I’m glad you like them,” she said with a chuckle.

In the haziness around them, Claire could see that Hershel’s lips pulled tight. She quirked her brow in a silent question: _what’s wrong?_

Then a hesitant hand emerged from under their covers. Hershel’s rough palm rested upon Claire’s cheek, and his thumb made gentle strokes along her cheekbone. Butterflies performing advanced gymnastics fluttered in her belly, moved by the rare physical display of affection. The thick scent of the storm still clung over Hershel, but now his fingertips were warm against her skin. Claire pressed a gentle kiss onto his palm. Even in the low, gray light and lack of glasses she could make out a bashful grin coloring her sweetheart’s features, and it made her giggle. She reached out to Hershel’s hair, ruffling his frizzed bangs, and he let out a soft, quiet chuckle. It was her turn to have a giddy smile spread across her face. She loved his hair, the way the ringlets curled around her fingers, how it always bounced back into its state of perpetual bedhead. Her hand slid further down, cupping his jaw.

Hershel breathed a relaxed huff, and he sank deeper against the mattress. “Thank you,” he murmured, consciousness drifting. As he closed his eyes and leaned into the comfort of her touch, nose pressed against her thumb, Claire studied the dark lines pulling down from his eyelids, the faint purple bruising that ringed beneath. She frowned at the sight.

How often had this occurred unnoticed? How many times had he been engulfed by these veils and detached from the rest of the word, yet he hadn’t told a soul out of fear of being a burden? The anxiety writhed around her ribs, and its thorns jabbed at her heart and lungs.

He had grown so much as a person and taken such great strides since they had first met all those years ago. This man in her arms had been through so much, but he still found the will to keep fighting. The strength to remain kind, courteous, and charitable despite it all. However, this was not a battle he had to wage alone. She was determined to let him see that.

The physicist knew all of it would still take time. That fact did not discourage her.

Slow, even breaths ghosted over her hand. A sense of peace covered Hershel’s face, his expression tranquil and brow no longer wrinkled in worry. Out like a light, and Claire could not resist an affectionate smile. The enraged storm outside had appeased into steady rainfall, its fury placated for the time being.

Claire pulled Hershel closer as if to protect him from the shadows that lingered around them, within him. A brush of her lips against his forehead, her chin nestled among the sea of curls atop his head.

She would not let him drown.


	2. Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fifteen years later.

_ Tick, tock, tick, tock, seconds, minutes, hours, years. The sun and moon’s infinite chase around the celestial sphere. Blood thundering through a living body, the steady thump, thump, thump of a resilient pulse. _

_ An even rhythm, natural yet synthetic all at once. Organic yet manmade. An unimaginable force humanity has tried for millennia to grasp, control, change. _

_ Footsteps echoing through sterile, bleached-white hallways. Bouncing like heartbeats on the tile. They pass men in dark suits, cookie-cutter and sharp against the bright walls. In the five years she has worked at the Institute, she has never seen them before. _

_ The room where they have spent so many hours, so many late nights fumbling over theorems and probabilities. The result of their hard work looming in the center of the room, a rough amalgamation of clocks, gears, and pipes soldered together by their own calloused hands. Yet her chest swells with pride when looking upon the crude thing. _

_ Hesitation then prickles in the back of her mind; they haven’t tested the machine to this extent before, and it’s so much sooner than they had initially planned. They cannot risk the lives of just any volunteer, and their choices are limited. What if - _

_ No. Fear never progressed anything. It has to be done. _

_ The usual preflight checks. Coil upon coil of ticker tape spits from the main console. All of the data appears to match their notes; a good sign. _

_ Taking a deep breath, she walks forward. The moment of truth. _

_ She takes her place in the center of the pod, then turns to face the to room. The suited men hover in the doorway, waiting. Her coworker pulls a lever, and the door hums upward. There is something distant in his eyes, but before she can examine it she is closed off from the world with a loud creak and thud. _

_ Lights flicker on, low and hazy, glowing orange on the bronze encasing her. She steadies herself, lungs drinking in slow pulls. Ready. _

_ A low rumbling swells and vibrates through the machine. Her chest aches as it shudders through her bones. A high pitched buzz grows louder, similar to the sound of the television turning on. Electricity hums about. More even breaths of the tinged air. _

_ A rattling lurch. Smoke billows into the spherical chamber, pipes hissing and screeching and bursting with acrid fumes. The vessel churns and shifts as if floating on a choppy sea, gives as if breathing and alive. Confusion melds into fear. Something very wrong. _

_ Bill, she screams, Bill, what’s going on?! She grapples for the latch of the chamber door, hot, scalding her palms. Choking, door stuck, fighting the building heat surging around her. Sparks shoot like brilliant fireflies throughout the narrow space. _

_ Coughing, burning, turning, pulling, sucking in molten lava that that smolders her from the inside. _

_ The hatch gives way. _

_ White, piercing light. Force slamming her onto the littered ground, a morbid kaleidoscope. Shredded metal ripping skin already scorched and raw. A strangled cry wrenches from her throat. Jagged bolts sparking, shattered glass shining as it spills to the charred floor. Awful smell of singed machinery and hair. Ringing floods her ears. _

_ Flames scaling higher, clawing and raking over flesh and cloth. Ravenous, hungry, insatiable. Tears and sweat dissipate the moment they swell on her skin, wicked away by the searing golden talons. _

_ Can’t breathe, can’t breathe, just heat and pain and the roar of blood and clatter of the metal surrounding her. Struggling to feet, legs like jelly. Something wet and thick dripping down the left side of her face, red clouding her sight. A teetering step before muscles give up, sending her crashing back to the floor. Glasses go flying, taken by the curtain of smog. A sickening crunch lost behind the distant wail of sirens and snaps and pops of exposed wiring. _

_ Figures standing around her, looming, but she cannot make out their features in the blinding light. They are shadows of void standing above, caught up in the flames and smoke. I’m sorry, she chokes, I’m so sorry, but they do not respond. Just stare with eyeless faces. _

_ Black tickling at the edges of her sight. The towering forms swim in and out of the licking blaze, melting. Raw agony pulsing and rippling through muscle and skin. _

_ Cold and dark. A jarring shift, thrown into an empty void of nothing. Floating. _

_ Yellow light blooms around her, swirling, gossamer strands dancing through the vacuum. _

_ Her feet have found solid ground. Cobblestones powdered with snow, ash, broken glass and shorn metal. Which is true, which is real. Torn between two lifetimes, two fates. _

_ One of warmth, adventure, and gentle embraces. The other so fleeting, solitary, bittersweet in the end. _

_ In both, tears stream down her beloved’s face; one in joy, one in sorrow. _

_ The world quakes. Blinding tendrils scoring across the distorted landscape, fizzling away like an old sepia photograph thrown into the flames. Dissolving until she is eaten away, erased from existence. _

_ Every molecule tearing, splitting, ripping apart. _

_ Reduced to dust. _

••••••••••••••••••

Hershel Layton was awoken by an absence.

The world felt slow and ethereal as it does in the wee hours when most reasonable people have not yet risen. Any other day he would hunker deeper beneath the blankets and let sleep’s tresses draw him back in for another few hours of blissful ignorance.

But the atmosphere felt amiss. Too alone. His mind would never let him rest until he found the reason why.

In his groggy, half-conscious state, he reached a hand out to the other half of the bed, expecting to feel warmth beside him. Instead, his hand flopped against the cold mattress with a soft bump. Only air.

The professor opened his bleary eyes, mystified, and propped himself up on his elbow to stare at the empty portion of the bed. The only evidence of its former occupant were the tossed aside sheets and duvet exposing the beige plaid beneath. Glasses abandoned on the far nightstand. No sound nor light emitted from the master bath connected to their bedroom, and one lone dressing gown hung from the row of hooks on the door, his own dark saffron one.

Just him in the low, gray-blue light softening the room.

A tingling sense of alarm shook the throes of sleep from his mind like brittle cobwebs. Tossing aside the blankets, he clambered out of bed and grabbed his robe off the rack. He wavered for a moment, his balance rattled by vertigo; stood up too fast. Once the black spots that dappled his vision dissipated, he stumbled out of the room.

The hall did not prove to be any more helpful in the search. Not a sound but the gentle creak of cold floorboards beneath his feet. Worry spread down through his neck and chest, flooding with each breath.

No, no, it’s all right. Twisting the wedding band around his finger, inhale, exhale. Observe the surroundings.

More dim, pallid light spilled from the hall window to his left, reflecting off the floor’s aged wooden panels. Across the way, the door that mirrored their own was open a hair. Layton approached the room and pressed the door open enough for him to peer inside.

Tucked beneath the comfort and safety of a pile of blankets, Flora was nestled in her bed. The covers rose and fell with her slow, even breaths. Peaceful. Little Gizmo was flopped on their back at the foot of the bed, lost in the robot counterpart of sleep. Through the window beside the two sleepers, beyond the pink and white dotted curtains, the professor could see telltale flakes of white drifting down from the dappled sky. Hershel felt a smile tug the edges of his lips. The girl would be ecstatic once morning arrived.

Leaving the pair to their slumber, Layton closed the door with a faint click. The anxiety gripping his heart weakened, but it still continued to linger as a dense weight in his ribs. A quick inspection of the hall washroom bore no further clues nor solace.

He made his way further down the dim hallway. The air around him was still and silent besides small moans and strains through the wearied structure. As he neared the opposite end of the floor, waves of cold ebbed up the stairs, biting his toes. Curious, Hershel padded down the first few steps. He was certain he had locked the front door before retiring for the night.

The grandfather clock in the living room let out three somber notes that hummed through the house. Layton descended into the purple haze of the ground floor.

Halfway down the staircase a dark cut of the world of night was revealed where the front door had once been shut; now it hung open, shifting in the wind’s breath. Stray flakes slipped through the gap, melting from sight as soon as they touched the wood floor.

A figure stood just past the doorway, back to the professor.

Auburn locks trailed like smoke, ebbing and flowing, glowing against the blur of gloom. White flecks whisked past in a shifting roll, carving and swirling through the mauve brume blending with charcoal and dusky blue. The trim of a burgundy robe billowed about their legs, caught up in the frigid wind like frayed scraps clinging to a specter.

Every muscle within Hershel pulled tight as he halted in place, heart forcing its way into his throat, but recognition smoothed it all away.

“Claire?”

The figure’s shoulders pulled tight around her neck, startled by the new presence. A sleeved arm scrubbed across her face before she turned back to him, disclosing a tired smile. Her nose, eyes, and cheeks were puffy and raw, but Hershel could not decipher if the cause had been the chill or shed tears. Perhaps both. His heart wrenched.

“My dear, what are you doing out in the snow?” he said, not bothering to smother the worry in his voice.

Her smile weakened. The night cast a shadow curling over her features. “I couldn’t sleep.” The words turn into white puffs that vanish without a trace.

Layton’s mouth creased into a taut line, and his brow steepled as he watched Claire’s hair swirl around her in a halo of copper. “It’s much too cold to be standing out here. Let’s get back inside, all right?” he suggested, reaching a hand out to her.

Her fingers were like icicles on his palm. Without protest, she stepped through the threshold, looking to the hardwood under her flushed feet.

The professor stared down at the prints left behind in the white dusting over the front stoop. Crisp rounded shapes that would soon be filled in by the descending flakes. His ribs ached as he closed the door and locked out the chill of the night.

Turning back to the entryway, Hershel felt his limbs go numb upon seeing his wife missing yet again, the spot she had been mere moments ago now empty. Then he spotted her silhouette in the mottled haze of the living room and followed after. She stood there, transfixed on something in front of her in the dark.

Her gaze lead him to one of their wedding photos hung on the wall. Her fingers glide over the polished frame, following its smooth curves as she stares at their decade-younger beaming faces. The bride’s hair, much shorter back then, pulled back into a tidy bun where flowers and a gossamer veil adorned her head. Her dress flared out in soft pastels, each layer of the skirt’s folds trimmed in the shapes of puzzle pieces. Still not quite accustomed to the tall article, the groom’s hat sat askew on his crown, and he beamed all the same. His present self could not help but smile along with the cheerful memory.

The scientist continued to fixate on the photograph, her eyes focused but staring past the framed image, beyond the wall it adorned. Harsh lines tugged at her brow and eyes, her lack of glasses making them distinct against her freckled cheeks. Simple fatigue was a logical cause, but something beyond late nights at the lab was ingrained in those sheer marks.

Hershel placed his palm at the middle of Claire’s cold back, slow and gentle as to not startle her. She did not shy away from the touch, but chilled tremors continued to wrack through her shorter frame. “Can I get you anything?” he asked.

A pause. The house wheezed against buffeting gales. Claire shook her head. “No, thank you,” she said without turning to look at him.

Layton’s smile receded. Her empty tone verified that something was indeed very wrong.

The archaeologist took a few steps back, then switched on the standing lamp behind them situated between the sofa and red wingback chair. Yellow light spilled forth, chasing the shadows around them. The change pulled Claire’s attention away from the photo, and she gave her husband a quizzical look, brow raised and lips puckered. Her expression revived the professor’s grin. He offered a hand toward her, and her fingers slipped between his; they padded to the center of the living room, stopping in front of the sofa.

Releasing his wife’s hand, Hershel propped one of the couch’s throw pillows against the armrest, sat down beside it, and laid back, his arms open so Claire could fit against him like a matching puzzle piece. Her head rested on his chest, and he pressed a kiss into her locks of hair, ruffled from tossing and turning and the winter wind. The smooth fragrance of the lavender shampoo she used flood through his senses. A quilt that had been draped over the back of the couch was pulled down, enveloping them in its checkered, woolen embrace.

Physical contact and displays of affection had never been easy for the professor, but he understood it was something members of his company sought for comfort. Luke and Flora would grapple for his hands and sleeves, seeking an anchor in moments of distress. For some it was a way to show comradery with a light punch to the shoulder or hearty embrace. Hershel took it all in stride.

With Claire, however, it was always gentle and understanding. Soft touches, a warmth revealing the other’s presence. The reassurance that they were there, that it would be okay. He took great comfort in it, and he knew it did the same for her.

Layton brushed away a few persistent snowflakes that clung to his wife’s ginger curls. Her frosted toes brushed against his legs, the cold seeping through thin fabric to his skin. He pulled his limbs closer around her to share his own body heat, her head tucked under his chin. A fire in the hearth would be pleasant on such a frigid night, but Hershel knew this was not an ideal time.

They huddled together in the quiet. Light breaths in and out, Hershel’s hand following the curve of Claire’s spine up and down. Her heartbeat echoed through his chest, far outracing his own pulse. Snow outside fluttered down, coating the sleeping metropolis around them. The grandfather clock continued its rhythmic chant.

Once Layton felt the shivers wracking through his wife cease and her toe tips return to a normal temperature did he voice his concern. “Do you want to talk about it?” he murmured into her hair.

Her shoulders shrugged, making the quilt over them shift. “Just the same old things,” she mumbled against his collarbone, “Nightmare.”

Layton made a soft grunt of understanding and pressed his cheek against the top of her head. “I see. Can you recall anything that may have provoked it?”

Claire was quiet for a moment, filtering through the day’s events. Her muscles tightened, the reel jerking to a halt. “I think it may be because the telly in the staff lounge at work was playing some press conference or another that Hawks was doing the other day,” she said, her tone exhausted and tinged with anger.

Hershel felt his heart plummet.

A heavy sigh passed Claire’s lips, warm and agitating loose strands of hair. “All I wanted was to make myself a cup of tea, but I had to see and hear...  _ that. _ I mean, I know it’s not as if I can get away from it all since he’s somehow the  _ prime minister _ , for goodness’ sake, but it’s still jarring every time I see his miserable mug.” Her voice fell low. “This time was worse than usual.”

Tension swelled. The professor shifted his head back against the pillow to get a better view of his wife, but what he saw shook him into silence. A wide spectrum of emotions washed over Claire; anger, sorrow, fear, confusion, shame, and countless others passing through her features as fast as Hershel could blink. With each fluid transition her eyes shone brighter, welling with defiant tears at war with her crumbling composure. A sequence the professor had not seen pass over her since that man had been elected.

“After we tried so hard to dig deeper to prove what he did and bring it to light, but if anything it set us back further, and now that we have Flora I can’t bear the thought of something happening to us and her being alone again. Losing two sets of parents in such a short amount of time.” Claire’s words grew wet and unsteady, muffled as she leaned more into her husband’s chest, grimacing. “I just want all of it to stop.”

Layton felt his own eyes begin to burn, but he found his voice. “Oh, my dear,” he breathed, pulling her closer and stroking the back of her head, “I’m so sorry.”

She let out a frustrated groan, frustration with herself. Her clenched fist scoured over her eyes, leaving the skin a deeper red from pale knuckles. “I’m the one that’s sorry. I caused all this. And look at me being all self-pitying when people  _ died _ .” Her fingers gripped tangled hair, her face lost in its canopy. Quaking. “All the fire and noise and smoke and glass  _ everywhere _ . I should have paid more attention, gone over the notes again, figured out what the  _ hell  _ was going on!”

A pair of hands steadied her shoulders. Hershel kept his tone gentle and level despite his sprinting heartbeat. “It’s all right, Claire,” he soothed, “Just take a moment to breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth.” He demonstrated with slow drags of air, and after a moment Claire retreated her shaking hands away from her face to follow his lead. As her breaths slowed she sank against the professor, somehow looking more drained than she had minutes prior. Her eyes stared down at the rug, following the pale blue patterns swirling through deep navy.

Setting a hand upon hers, Hershel drew her focus back. “Feeling any better?” he asked. He rolled a thumb pad over the row of fingers.

She heaved a shaky sigh. “Hawks is a belligerent arsehole,” Claire muttered under her breath. Taken aback by the scathing vernacular, Hershel raised his brow, but he then let out a small chuckle. He was relieved when a faint grin pulled at the scientist’s lips. Then her eyes darkened, her smile vanishing in an instant. “I thought I was over this. I thought I had beaten it, or at least found a way to deal with it.” Her hand on his chest pinched the fabric of his robe between her fingers. “I suppose I was wrong.”

Hershel’s calm expression faltered, the edges of his mouth curling downward. He tucked aside Claire’s bangs, revealing the marks curling up her jaw, past the boundary where hair should be but could no longer grow. He trailed his thumb over the misshapen cartilage of the shell of her ear. “I’m sorry that you are having a difficult time. Yes, these things crop up sometimes, but it is not a result of weakness. Strength takes an immeasurable amount of energy, and we all need to rest every once in awhile.”

He held her to his form, secure, and she draped her arms around him in return. “I understand how you feel immense guilt over what happened, but there is no way you could have known what would occur. Anxiety has a tendency to warp our perceptions of events, making us believe that we should have done more, yet our past selves did not have the knowledge that we do now. It distorts reality and turns it against us. Do you follow?”

Her head nodded in agreement, but he could not see her face to see if she really  _ did _ believe his words. He would have to trust her on that. Nonetheless, he continued. “From my own perspective, over this last decade you have helped those who lost loved ones in that incident get back on their feet. You have aided others around the city who have had their voices neglected as well. You learned from what happened and now work to make the world better both from the lab and in the field. It does not erase what happened, but it helps to prevent similar tragedies in the future.”

The room felt far too quiet after his words melted into the white noise. He began to worry that he said something wrong, but Claire spoke up at last. “I suppose so,” she said with a note of lingering doubt.

Hershel trailed his fingers down the scientist’s jaw to her chin. Her gaze lifted up to him, still engulfed with dread and weariness. He gave her a smile. “We’re safe. Flora’s safe. Everything will be all right. Like we’ve always said, let’s just take it all one day at a time.”

Staring, drinking in his words. Vacancy and detachment chipping away, causing the lingering fog to disperse. But there is still a confusion, an uncertainty drawing her brow inward.

Her hands, gentle yet firm, rested on his cheeks. “Hershel,” mouth hovered open before the words escaped in a whisper, “this is real, right?” Something keen brimmed in her eyes. Earnest and anxious as she stared back at him in wait for his answer.

Hershel gave her a nod before placing his hands over hers. “Yes. This is real, my dear,” he whispered. Guiding her fingers to the front of his face, he pressed his lips to her knuckles. The affirmation and gesture grounded him back to reality as well. They were here, together.

But embarrassment made a sharp coil in his stomach. He let go of her hands, forced himself to look at her. Fatigue still laced her features in deep purple grays and reds, but her eyes regained their ever-inquisitive whit that could always read him like a book. She gave him a tender smile and reached out to press a finger to his nose. “Hershey-wershey,” she said, warm and comforting like honey.

He gave a light chuckle, admiration and love flowing through him with each drum of his pulse. “Claire-bear,” he replied as he mimicked the gesture.

She leaned toward him, her eyes slipping shut, and his heart quickened its pace as he followed her movements. Gentle lips press to his cheek, the corner of his mouth, then against his own. So fond and close, and heat pooled in his face, hands, chest, making his insides feel soft and light. Ten years married and he still felt like that shy university student standing outside Claire’s flat when they kissed for the first time. How crimson spilled across both of their faces, followed by peals of laughter. The sensation was so strange yet pleasant, immersing him head to toe in joyous feelings.

But the press of Claire’s lips disappeared in the present. Layton’s eyes drew open to see her greatest attempts to suppress a wide grin, her bottom lip clamped between her teeth and her nose wrinkled in glee.

A smirk pulled at the corners of his mouth. “What?”

The scientist let out a small giggle. “Your face was so sweet,” she said, giving him one final kiss on the forehead. A stifled yawn scrunched her face.

Hershel gave a happy hum of a laugh and cupped Claire’s blemished cheek in his palm. “You should try to get some rest. I’ll be right here if you need anything.” Eyes closed, she nuzzled his hand, then nodded in agreement.

Claire settled back down on her husband’s torso, tucking her arms around him as if he were a large pillow. She pressed a kiss to his chest, aligned with where his heart was thrumming. “Thank you,” she mumbled, words distorted by her squished cheek, “I love you.”

Her husband combed his fingers through the ends of her ginger waves of hair. “I love you, too.”

It was not long before her muscles went slack, breaths grew shallow, consciousness slipped away. Weight tugged at Hershel’s own eyelids, but he wanted to be sure that Claire’s sleep would be restful; he resolved to wait a short while until he was certain of that.

He looked down at her sleeping form, still smiling as he stroked the back of her head. But a heaviness descended on his mind.

The fact that her nightmares had reduced over the years was a blessing, but that did not mean her subconscious did not retaliate from time to time. Healthy coping mechanisms, mindfulness, and prescription medication did a great deal to help her heal and move on from that trauma, but they did not efface the incident from history. It still happened, as did the repercussions.

That tragedy would forever haunt them and others who faced loss as a result. Time stopped for those taken by the blaze, but it continued unabated for the survivors, and how that time would be spent was vital. There were obstacles, stumbling blocks that had even left the scientist and her then-fiancé back in the hospital after someone believed they were growing too close to a festering root conspiracy. However, they had to keep pressing forth in any manner they could. Claire did play a role in the creation of the machine, and as a result she took responsibility for the damage it yielded in its wake.

This human being who was marred physically and emotionally by the accident. Who was intelligent, kind, determined, and a combination of countless other praises Hershel was unable to find the proper words for. She always caused an overwhelming delight to spread through his entire body, following the paths of every artery and muscle, making his heart sing. He felt as if his ribs could split apart and the world around them would be overcome with butterflies, clouds, all types of wonderful things that made one feel comforted and jovial.

He could never see her as anything less than amazing. Saddled with her own challenges and difficulties, of course, but amazing nonetheless in her power and willingness to keep going. Her unyielding desire to learn and change. He admired that about her.

“I’m so proud of you,” he breathed, tugging the blanket up around her. She had aided him and supported him infinite times since they first became friends all those years ago, and it was only fair he did the same for her. She deserved it.

Reaching up, Layton clicked off the lamp perched above them and nestled on the couch with his wife, taking comfort in the slow, even breaths through her body as he held her. He watched the shadows of falling snow dancing over the curtains until his eyes were overpowered by the late hour, and reality faded away into the welcoming darkness.

••••••••••••••••••

This time, it had been a light tap on the shoulder that woke the professor.

He ignored it at first, too snug in the warmth and weight surrounding him, but there it was again. The delicate prod of a finger on his upper arm.

“Professor?” a soft voice followed, rippling through the barrier between him and the waking world. A series of rattling clanks against the hardwood floor came near, the scrape of metal over metal. Something cold bumped Hershel’s hand that hung over the edge of the sofa cushion.

Might as well give in now, as this was not a battle he was bound to win. “Hm?” he muttered, his eyes blinking against the bright gray light pouring into the room. The realm of fuzzy, amorphous shapes at last came into focus.

Flora stood beside the couch, wide-eyed and fiddling with the bottom hem of her coral dressing gown. Her uncombed hair spilled out down her shoulders, loose curls feathering her rounded cheeks. Her brow raised as he became lucid. “Professor,” she murmured, “is... is everything okay?” Rich brown irises flickered to her still-sleeping mother figure, then back to him.

Hershel moved to sit up further, resting a hand on the back of Claire’s head so she would not slip. A twinge bolted up his back, but he bit it back. He studied the physicist in his arms for a moment, warmed by the sight of her peaceful slumber. “I believe so, yes,” he whispered as he looked to his daughter, and the girl’s expression relaxed as he gave her a reassuring smile. “Would you mind getting a kettle started, dear?” Her face lit up, and with a nod she darted into the kitchen, the belt of her robe trailing behind her.

As Flora left the living room, the family’s robotic canine companion toddled toward the front of the sofa, their tail wavering back and forth in a curious manner. Layton gave Gizmo a few light taps on their back, which echoed through their metallic form. “Good morning to you, too,” he said. Satisfied, the little dog teetered their way to the clattering of china on the kitchen counter.

The professor’s attention turned back to Claire, who now had her arms wound around him like a vice, clinging to the last remnants of sleep. A light chuckle huffed through his nose. He trailed a thumb over her shoulder and kissed her brow. “Rise and shine, love.”

A throaty grunt was Claire’s reply as she buried her face further into his stomach.

Layton hummed as he set his chin on top of her head. “I know, I know, but we promised Flora we would go with her to the new bookshop on Midland today, remember? On the way we can stop by that little café you like near Trafalgar Square.”

The physicist stiffened, silent for a beat. “The one with the really good kolaches?” came her rough, muffled reply.

“Yes, the one with the really good kolaches,” Hershel confirmed, unable to keep a grin from his face.

A heavy, dramatic breath. “All right, you’ve persuaded me,” she groaned, heaving herself up onto her hands. Hershel moved his legs over the side of the couch so Claire could take a seat beside him. Her arms stretched high above her head, her shoulders popping in release. “Even though I would have gotten up anyway since Flora has been looking forward to this for almost a week now.”

After a moment, Hershel’s lighthearted manner pivoted into a concerned tone. “How are you feeling?” he asked. Careful fingers brushed Claire’s bangs aside.

She gave him a smile. “Better than I did yesterday, but I’m still feeling a little,” she winced and wavered her hand in the air before shifting back to a grin. “Spending the day out should help, though.”

The worry in Layton’s mind dissipated, washed away by the reassurance. He set his hand down on top of his wife’s on the couch cushion, tenderness gracing his features. “I’m glad.” Mirroring his enamoured expression, Claire leaned against her husband’s shoulder and breathed a content sigh. In turn, the professor kissed her temple and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. Calm. Shimmering light reflecting off the coating of snow outside spilling through the window, quiet and bright. The pleasant contact of sitting beside each other in the stillness, peaceful.

They jumped when a loud clang resonated from the kitchen, followed by a tiny “oops.”

Jarred out of their little moment, the couple shared an anxious glance. Claire was the first to break into a sheepish smirk. “It sounds like our resident chef could use some help.”

Hershel let out a soft chuckle. “I believe you’re right.” He rose to his feet, offering Claire his hand to balance her as she stood. Fingers knit together, they padded across the throw rug to the threshold of the kitchen to begin preparations for a new day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love them so m u c h and want them to be hA PPY.....


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